


How to Save a Life (Or, How to Save a Hawk)

by orphan_account



Series: Songverse [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kind of a slow build, Multi, Natasha isn't a bitch, Phil Coulson Is a Good Bro, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, That may change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was Clint's whole entire year summed up to this point:</p><p>1. His failed suicide attempt after Natasha threw him to the curb.<br/>2. His failure stemming from a man who introduced himself as Phil Coulson, or, as Clint pegged him, the <em>'fucking archangel'</em> who happened to walk by just in the nick of time.<br/>3. The said archangel helping him get himself together.<br/>4. The realization that he might have been falling in love with said archangel.<br/>5. The <em>acceptance</em> that he was falling in love with said archangel.</p><p>Great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lay Down A List Of What Is Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Ahahaha, so I changed the title and the summary.  
> Sue me.  
> I don't own the lyrics, so yeah!
> 
> ~HalfJewel

It’s one of those nights, yet again, when Phil is asleep at his side and Clint is busy staring off into the corner of the room they share, his bedside lamp on and illuminating his side of the bed. He’s leaning against the headboard, pillows propping him up, thoughts stirring about in his head and not leaving him alone. Phil’s sound asleep, the lucky bastard, and it makes Clint consider taking sleeping meds, because this isn’t the first time he’s been awake, thinking. He knows he should at least try to stop, to shut off the light and shut his eyes, but it doesn’t work.

The thoughts won’t leave him alone.

He should know, within the year that he and Phil have grown together, that the thoughts shouldn’t affect him like they are affecting him now. He knows he shouldn’t even be having these thoughts, because he hasn’t had them in over six months. He doesn’t know why his mind is unearthing them and playing them for him, like finding an old movie and popping into a VCR just to see if it wasn’t faulty. Clint knows _these_ thoughts aren’t faulty. These memories _aren’t_ broken.

Over a year ago he was a total wreck, after Natasha had ripped out his heart and stepped all over it with her stilettoes. He had allowed her to, let her slice him open and reveal his weaknesses, and allowed her to use these weaknesses. He doesn’t know why he had let that happen. He thinks it was because, once upon a time, the two had been a happy couple, and Clint had been so stupidly in love that the infatuation had blinded him, leaving him open for attack, and he couldn’t do anything about it. It makes him seethe with rage now, and he clenches his fists, trying to control his anger. Phil told him that his anger will be his downfall one day, and Phil is probably right.

Phil.

Phil had helped him, dragged him out of the trench he had dug himself into and assisted him in collecting the pieces and getting his life together. He hadn’t known the man at first, the man who had saved his life, and at first, he hated the other. He hated him because he saved him. He had wanted to drown along with his dreams and he couldn’t do it because of the one person. He recalls the various times he’s stormed out of Phil’s house and always ended up coming back within the span of forty-eight hours. He smiles at the thought.

Then he continues to think, much to his chagrin. Clint knows better than to make a mistake like Natasha all over again. The one time he opened himself up and he was almost destroyed. He thought that he could trust her, but she proved him wrong in so many ways. Maybe it was his fault. He had been gullible and look at what happened to him? His heart had been cut up, mangled, and thrown to the dogs.

A voice whispers to him that Phil might do the same thing.

He considers this repugnant, because from what he’s gathered about Phil, he wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t have the capacity to do that. Just because Phil is a stone-cold badass, doesn’t mean that he’s going to chop Clint up and feed him to the wolves when he’s tired of him.

But he probably will leave him.

Clint knows he should prevent that from happening. He knows that this relationship should have never happened. He should have just kept his distance, not allowed his feelings to spill and be shown. He’s afraid that he’s going to be played again.

Either that, or he’ll end up breaking _Phil’s_ heart.

He slowly gets up out of bed and goes to his desk, sitting down and grabbing a scrap of paper. He thinks. Then he begins.

 

_‘Phil,_

_Our relationship is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can say that in all honesty, because it’s true. You helped me get my shit together after she-who-shall-not-be-named, and I honestly love you for that. I love you, for everything you’ve done for me._

_You’re probably wondering why I’ve written this…’_

 

He stops and stares at what he has. He doesn’t believe what he’s about to do. Clint can’t believe what he’s about to do. He doesn’t know if he can go through with it.

 

‘ _I’m just…afraid. After everything that’s happened to me, I just think that it’s my fault. All that shit that happened with her—I had allowed myself to become attached, and I ended up getting myself nearly killed. I know that you wouldn’t do that, Phil…but I’m afraid that I might do that to you. Sometimes the victims become the bad guys, but your probably already know that. I…couldn’t stand it if I hurt you, Phil. I don’t want to break up with you, but I’m dangerous, Phil. I’m toxic. And I know that if you read this, then I’m hurting you. I’m hurting you right now. Slowly poisoning you. This is easier; it will hurt less in time…’_

He stares at what he wrote and thinks again, back to everything that had happened to him, trying to figure out why he’s doing this. After everything he and Phil have been through, it ends like this? In one fell swoop? The trials that he faced, the help that Phil offered, it all ends here if Clint goes through with it?

Why is he doing this?

He needs to find a reason. Other than his apparent toxicity.

He thinks back. He tries to find reasons, he thinks back to the very moment he and Phil first met, that fateful day when everything changed. The day when he wanted it all to end, would rather be dead than face his own personal hell, and when the man dragged him out of the water. Clint recalls all of the nights Phil had stayed up with him after that, trying to help him get himself together, and he didn’t even have to, he just did it because he _wanted_ to. He remembers their first kiss, Phil’s expression, everything for then and there that ultimately sealed his fate.

He remembers.

 

_‘Step one you say we need to talk_

_He walks you say sit down it's just a talk_

_He smiles politely back at you_

_You stare politely right on through_

_Some sort of window to your right_

_As he goes left and you stay right_

_Between the lines of fear and blame_

_And you begin to wonder why you came_

_Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend_

_Somewhere along in the bitterness_

_And I would have stayed up with you all night_

_Had I known how to save a life_

_Let him know that you know best_

_Cause after all you do know best_

_Try to slip past his defense_

_Without granting innocence_

_Lay down a list of what is wrong_

_The things you've told him all along_

_And pray to God, he hears you_

_And pray to God, he hears you’_

 

The Fray, _“How To Save A Life_ ”


	2. The Innocence Can Never Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint recalls the day he decided to jump; the day that changed his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just saying...you should totally follow me on Tumblr.
> 
> ~HalfJewel

 

Clint flashes back to a year ago, in the month of September. This day is fresh in his mind; this is the day that the fresh wounds were opened and he began to bleed.

 

He didn’t know why he had gotten into his car and drove all the way to the Hudson, and he probably will never know why. It was the end of a chilly September day, the sun sinking dangerously low in the west, its dying rays of light being countered by the darkness of the approaching night. The sky looked almost cut in half between light and dark, two completely different entities sharing the same space. Clint stared up at the sky for a long time before he returned his gaze to the water below him. It was dark yet calm, a complete contrast to his thoughts, even though they were dark. They were nothing near calm though, his thoughts like a raging ocean, his emotions a tidal wave.

And he was an unsuspecting city, ignorant to the tirade that the sea of his psyche was about to deliver.

He had stood there for so long that the sun gave up the fight and had sunk behind the horizon, the moon taking its place, casting a pale glow over the black waters below the bridge Clint was standing on. He stares up at the dark sky, taking in the pale moon and basking in its light. Calm washed over him but the relief was short lived as the events from the day replayed through his mind. He shut his eyes and propped his elbows on the balustrade he was leaning on, ducking his head. He was bent over and looked like he was in pain.

He was.

“ _Why, Nat? I thought that—”_

“ _You_ thought, _Clint. You didn’t do. I just…I think of you more as a brother than a lover. You understand, right?”_

The thing was, he didn’t understand. He couldn’t figure out why it had taken Natasha so damn long to confess her true feelings for the other, and why she had to do it in such a manner, going so far as to say that he’s a brother to her. They had known each other for years, dated for some, and then she suddenly comes out and confesses? This was the ultimate heartache—worse than being friend-zoned. He was brother-zoned.

Clint wondered if his live was even worth it anymore. He had been recently fired from his job, he had no money for his bills, and he just felt his resolve slipping from his fingers like silk. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering _why._ Why everything had to happen to him. Why he had to be tossed aside like yesterday’s news and replaced by someone who couldn’t do any better than him. What was the bastard’s name again? Loki? What the hell kind of name was that? He hadn’t even seen the guy, yet he somehow knew that this Loki got what he wanted, when he wanted it. Clint guessed when he laid eyes on Natasha, he wanted her from the start, and lo and behold, he got what he desired.

Clint glanced down at the water again, curiosity striking him as a bitter breeze fluttered past him, making him shiver slightly. He couldn’t feel his ears and his nose was about to join the list; how could it be this cold in the middle of September? Well, this _was_ New York; it had its weird weather once in a while.

Maybe…

The distance from the bridge to the water seemed extremely large; the impact alone could have mass effect in one’s fate. He tapped the concrete of the balustrade and a thought crossed his mind, whispering for him to end it all. To end his putrid existence. He obviously wasn’t wanted. He probably wouldn’t even make a story in the newspaper if he did. He was a nobody, nothing better than a homeless man wondering the streets, breath tainted with stolen whisky and mind abuzz with the alcohol.

Clint knew that everyone thought about suicide. But there was always that afterthought, the _oh my god, how could I even think like that_ afterthought. He waited for the thought to come.

It didn’t.

He glanced around, seeing if there was anyone around to witness his next actions. Biting his lip, he hoisted himself on top of the concrete balustrade and stared down at the seemingly bottomless expanse of black beneath him. The calculations float through his mind; the length, his weight, the impact might kill him. could he do this? Could he really do this? Clint had gall, that was for certain, but did he have enough audacity to bend his legs and catapult himself into the expanse of darkness presented beneath him?

He sucked in a deep breath and tried to reason with himself.

Did he have to do this? Clint had been through so many things that caused this to pale in comparison; he recalled those things and blanched. All his life he had been nothing in the pristine eyes of society, and every time he seemed to have clawed his way out of the trench he had been chucked into as a child, society had smirked in his dirt-smeared face and kicked him back down. All of his accomplishments, everything he’s ever done, were worthless in the eyes of the greater people. And here he was, contemplating jumping, and he swore he could hear the faint whisper of the elite, the silent hiss of, “ _Jump. Jump. Jump, you worthless piece of trash_.”

Everything horrible that has ever happened to Clint returned to him in one sudden burst of emotion, swelling into something and transforming into some horrendous, ugly thing. He clenched his chest, throat tightening, but he held back the tears.

Life isn’t worth it.

And so that is why he spreads his arms and falls gracefully to his death.

 

They say, before you die, your brain gathers up everything that had happened to you in your life and puts them on instant replay so you could relive the moments before you made your way into death. For Clint, reliving these moments again was a horrible experience, and he wasn’t sure if they were actually the moments or some horrible dream concocted by his dying mind.

Everything was cold, ridiculously cold, and he couldn’t breathe, his lungs screaming for glorious oxygen he wouldn’t give them. Numbness crept into his limbs and before he knew it he couldn’t move his arms or legs, the appendages that could propel him up and return him to life. He continued to sink, feeling everything slip away from his loose grasp, and he allowed it to happen. He closed his eyes, darkness enveloping him, and falls deeper and deeper into the never ending abyss…

 

Clint had never experienced ‘death’ before, so he didn’t know what it would be like. He expected to see the fiery walls of hell before his immoral eyes, feel the godforsaken flames lick up and down his skin, tasting him and taking in his every weakness, almost like Natasha had did, only to turn them against him.

He didn’t expect to see the pristine white walls of a hospital boxing him in, or an IV attached to his wrist.

Clint knew he should be relieved but the majority of him screamed in anger. Who saved him? Who thought that they could tamper with his choice and bring him here so he could be healed? No one had that right. No one could tell him what he could and couldn’t do. He gritted his teeth and his other hand clawed at the IV, freezing at the sound of another voice.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

The voice was calm, but serious, with a tone of authority laced in the sound. Clint stilled, then turned around in the bed to see who was the owner of said voice.

“And who the hell are you?” Clint muttered, tone hostile.

The man merely smirked. He was dressed in a suit and tie, leaning against the wall with bank expression. “That’s kind of a rude was of addressing the man who _saved your life_ , wouldn’t you think?”

So this was the heartless bastard. “Maybe I didn’t want saving. Maybe I didn’t need saving.”

The man cocked an eyebrow, eyeing him disapprovingly. He didn’t say anything, because one of the doctors came in at the right time.

Clint groaned. How was he gonna pay for this one.

 

Apparently Mr. Fucking Perfect was going to pay for his hospital bills, making Clint even more pissed, because the guy didn’t have to be such a fucking archangel about everything. In fact, when he was released he followed the man until outside the hospital he stopped and turned around. “Can I help you?”

“Why?” Clint questioned. “Why did you save me? I clearly had a reason for jumping off the bridge, why did you have to save me?”

The man took in Clint’s inquiry and expression, but his countenance remained flawless. He shrugged. “I was merely passing by when I saw a still body float up on the shore of the river. I would have been a fool to just leave it there to wither and die, now wouldn’t I?”

Clint gritted his teeth together, clenching his fists. “Why would you stick your neck out for a guy you don’t even know?”

The man shrugged again. “I don’t need to justify my actions.”

He turned around to walk away, but Clint still followed. “Why didn’t you just leave me there to die?”

The man halted, then turned. “Did you not want me to?”

Clint stilled, looking down slowly. “N-no. I was trying to kill myself.”

There was an awkward silence after the statement. Clint’s expression was stony, cold; the man’s morphed into morbid. “What could have possibly gone wrong enough in your life to cause you to want to end it?”

The questioned caused Clint to wince. He drew away from the other. “None of your business.”

The man narrowed his eyes. He spoke, directing the statement back to Clint. His voice was calm and quiet, and Clint had to strain his ears so he could hear over the bustling city.

“Then it’s none of your business why I saved you.”

The man turned on his heel and directed himself away from Clint, but stopped when he said, “My name’s Clint. Clint Barton.”

The statement seemed to have caught the other off-guard, and he turned around again, a small smile on his lips. “I’m Phil Coulson.”

“Will I see you again, Coulson?” Clint asked.

“Perhaps, Barton, perhaps.”

And then Phil turned around and disappeared into the crowd of people, and Clint had no will to follow him.

 

_‘here comes the rain again_

_falling from the stars_

_drenched in my pain again_

_becoming who we are_

_as my memory rests_

_but never forgets what I lost_

_wake me up when September ends_

_Summer has come and passed_

_The innocent can never last_

_wake me up when September ends’_

Green Day, “ _Wake Me Up When September Ends_ ”


	3. Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint calls his old friend Tony up, the two go drinking, and Clint sees a familiar face.

Clint opens his eyes as the faded memory comes back to him and reopens the sealed up wounds. He can’t believe, sitting here now, at his desk, words laid out before him that may or may not see the light of day, that he had actually tried to go through with it. He can’t believe he stood on top of the balustrade, spread his arms like a hawk, and dove into the depths below him, trying to end it all before it even began.

Clint slouches in the chair, chewing on the end of his pen. Such stupidity. He never though he was capable of such ignorance, and it goads a hard chuckle out of him. He nibbles on his lower lip and closes his eyes again, continuing from where he left off.

 

 

 

Clint was standing in the middle of the busy sidewalk, feeling people brush past him and he gave them no heed. The staggering need to want to follow Phil was swiftly subsiding, and he needed to get away before it was ignited again. He barely knew the man and he didn’t want to be labeled a stalker, even though he had been labeled things much worse. He instead turned on his heel and walked away, trying to forget this ever happened.

 

Apparently this city was close to the Hudson so Clint had been able to walk back to the river, eyes scoping around for his car. For some reason he had this incredible skill to see things better at a distance, so he was able to spot his car for a literal mile away, across the bridge that led to the other side. Sighing, he jogged over to the bridge and began the slow trek down it, whistling some tune he had heard before but hadn’t bothered to remember its name.

 

When he got to his care, he remembered that he had left everything in it: his phone, keys, ID, everything; he was surprised to see that it hadn’t been broken into when he opened the door and ducked into the car, settling himself in the front seat. Shutting the door, he opened his glove box to see everything he had placed in there was in its proper order; the cellphone was under the wallet and the keys were next to the cellphone.

He smirked, pulling out the phone and unlocking it, seeing he had a voicemail from—oh god—Natasha. His thumb hovered over the select button and it was slightly shaky. So many thoughts went through his head at the same time. Should he listen to it? Should he delete it? Should he save it and use it for a later date, like for blackmail?

His reaction was as simple as could be.

He moved his thumb to the red button and pressed it. A little message confirming the deletion appeared on the screen and the next second it was all but a distant memory.

Come to think about it, Clint really couldn’t recall Natasha anymore. He didn’t remember what color her eyes were or what scars she had, and he knew that she had a lot of scars after he explored the contours of her body with his eyes…and his tongue.

He shook his eyes, blinking, then scrolled through his contacts (deleted Natasha) and he found the one he was looking for. Without hesitation, he pushed the call button and put the phone to his ear.

 

When Clint got back to his apartment he was waiting for him.

Tony Stark leaned against his fancy BMW, a bored expression on his face. He was typing on his Blackberry, lips pursed and eyes shaded by sunglasses that were probably more than Clint’s rent. As Clint pulled next him, Tony glanced up lazily, then returned his eyes to the screen, tapping his toe. Clint rolled his eyes as he got out of his car, shutting the door tightly behind him. “Yo, Tony.”

Tony fluttered his hand, a sign for Clint to shut up, and continued to stare at the phone. “My…schedule…is…clear.” He slipped the phone in his pocket and clasped his hands together. “Heya buddy boy, what’s up now? Oh but first: we need to go inside, it’s cold out here.”

“Tony, it’s seventy degrees.”

“I know, right?” He rubbed his hands together. “Fucking freezing. Let’s go, Hawkeye, I don’t want to turn into a Stark-cicle.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but complied. It was nice to see one of his good friends.

 

“So, lemme get this straight.” Tony rested his hands behind his head, leaning back in the love seat. Clint was sprawled out on his ratty couch, head lolling on the arm rest. “Natasha broke up with you, you jumped off a bridge, and some guy out of the blue just comes and saves you, pays for your hospital bills, and leaves?”

“That’s pretty much it,” Clint murmured, hands intertwined on his chest. He stared up at his ceiling, at a water stain that glared back at him. He narrowed his eyes and continued, “I think he said his name was like Phil or something.”

Tony didn’t reply for a while; when he did he sat up and said, “We need to get hammered.”

Clint stared at him in disbelief. “Did you seriously just suggest that?”

Tony grinned, standing up and spreading his arms wide. “Of course! You’re finally free to do whatever the hell you want, and you didn’t die, so that’s an unexpected bonus! Come on, Clint, you know that you need to get completely shitfaced. Come. On.”

And for some ungodly reason, Clint went alone with it.

 

Clint only had a handful of weaknesses, and one of those weaknesses was booze. He recalled back in the day, he got drunk almost every other day. His days had been blurred, the weeks had been smudged, and the months had blended together, the alcohol making it easy for Clint to move day after day, mind abuzz with Jaeger and all of its endless possibilities.

Tonight, he was reliving those all of those days in one setting.

He was sure he wouldn’t remember most of tonight.

Tony was a social drinker; the buzz caused his vocal cords to be switched to overdrive because he was talking up a storm with a bunch of women, apparently using his world-famous seduction techniques, the ones that got all of the ladies. Clint wondered if Tony could teach him his ways, or maybe one was just born with it and he was eternally fucked for the rest of his life.

He didn’t dwell on that; what he did dwell on, however, was the glorious affect the alcohol was having on him. With every swig he took he felt enlightened, in ecstasy, numb, and he wished that the feelings would never leave him. He wished that whenever he was feeling down he could just recall these feelings and then all would be better, but life didn’t work out that way, and therefore, he couldn’t, unless he had the money to buy alcohol every day for the rest of his life, which he didn’t.

As Clint sat there, Tony’s voice drifting in and out of his thoughts, he noticed that the buzz was deteriorating; just leaving him wasted, sitting there, drowning in his own emotions. He felt exposed, suddenly, like he was being ripped open and his feelings were spread out like the morning newspaper, eyes eagerly reading the headline. He clenched the glass in his hand, resolve wavering. He thought that this would have been a fun time, he and Tony getting drunk, but Tony was off being the little social butterfly he was and Clint was just sitting on the stool at the bar, hand wrapped around a glass, the total life of the fucking party.

“I think we should go,” he said once Tony had come back from flirting to replenish his drink. Once the bartender got to work, Tony stared at Clint in confusion.

“What?”

“I said, I think we should go,” Clint repeated.

Tony snorted, like he was amused by Clint’s statement. “Now, Clint. We’re supposed to be having fun, and you don’t seem to be having any fun at all. Come on, stand up, be _social_. I think I’ve found some nice-looking ladies that would be honored to go home with you.”

Clint shook his head, standing up from his seat. “I need some fresh air,” he said, turning away. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Tony called before he went out the door, “Life of the party, Clint!”

Clint rolled his eyes as he stepped out of the building, relishing in the cool air that blasted his face as he stepped out. He sucked in a deep breath and his head whirled, and he decided that he was fucking drunk and needed someone to drive him home. If it wasn’t going to be Tony, then he could just call a cab. Tony was probably going to go home with someone, someone not drunk and who was probably a gold-digger, so Clint didn’t worry about him too much, even though he knew he should. That’s what friends do, right? Worry about each other?

His hand went to his pocket and he remembered that he had abandoned his phone in the car. Perturbed, he cast his eyes across the street to see the sleek vehicle positioned somewhere far from where he was standing. He groused eternally and started to cross the street, not bothering to look both ways because for some reason the street was dead, and the only life that seemed to be populating it was Clint.

Him, and the sedan that was driving towards him in the dark. 

Clint didn’t see it. The driver didn’t see him until the last minute, and that was lucky because when Clint turned to face the car he raised his hands in front of him and the driver slammed the brakes, the car screeching to a halt in front of him. It had been such a close call that Clint had actually _seen_ his life flash before his eyes, and he hated reliving it. The thing that brought him back to reality was the back that the front of the car was touching his lower half and he staggered away in response.

There was a door slam and soon joining him was a very familiar face.

“Clint?” Phil Coulson sounded unsure, like he was trying to figure out a difficult puzzle presented to him. He approached the other slowly, as if afraid the other would turn into a wild animal and go manic. “Is that you?”

Clint was disappointed. He actually wanted to see if the car would end his life. He lowered his hands and glanced at the other, head cocked to the side. Then he busted into a goofy grin. “Hey, you’re that guy from earlier! My savior!”

Phil probably didn’t hear him. “What are you doing?”

Clint blinked and started to chuckle. “Like, me and my friend Tony decided to get shitfaced because I called and told him about what happened—you know, you saving my sorry ass?” He cackled again, bending over to hold his knees. “Sweet Jesus, you don’t even realize… wait, OMG, what are you doing here?”

Phil sighed. “I _was_ heading home. You would think that we wouldn’t have seen each other considering how big this city is…”

Clint clasped his hands together. “Dude. I need you to come with me to get my phone. I don’t wanna be raped or mugged. You look like a badass, please come with me…”

Phil breathed in. “Come with you to where?”

“You see, I need to get my phone out of Tony’s car so I can call a taxi, ’cause Tony’s flirting with all the hot chicks and I feel all alone.” Did Clint’s eyes actually sparkled or was that Phil’s imagination.

“Fine, I’ll follow you. Show me the way.”

Clint smiled like a goofball and grabbed Phil’s hand, beginning to tow him across the road. Phil couldn’t believe he was actually going along with this. And, he couldn’t believe that Clint was singing country (pretty damn well) when he started to blare ‘Mayberry’ by Rascall Flatts. It freaked Phil out that he even knew the song.

“Here it is!” Clint sang, opening the door and climbing inside, rummaging around, and then pulling out of the car with a cellphone in hand. “Now I can call a cab…” He stared at the phone in wonder. “Wait, how the fuck do I dial…”

Phil rolled his eyes and grasped Clint’s arm. “You’re coming with me, Barton.”

“What, where are we going?”

“I’m driving you home,” Phil answered.

“Wait,” Clint said. “I can’t, my friend Tony…aw, fuck him, he’s probably getting laid tonight, why do I care…”

When Phil and Clint arrived at the sedan and got inside, Phil was about to ask where Clint lived when he realized that he was already knocked out cold.

Phil stared at the other man for quite a long time, sighed, and put the car in drive.

 

When Clint awoke the next morning he found himself regretting ever emerging from his mother’s womb. He groaned, his throat feeling like someone went at it with a cheese grater, his head pounding like a bass drum. He licked his dry lips and opened his eyes, regretting it as soon as the light seared his retinas. He covered his eyes with his hand and sat up from where he was laying, which was a comfy couch, and he was covered with a soft, warm blanket. He blinked about fifty times before his eyes became adjusted and he was able to look around the room without being in (much) pain.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Clint turned his head to where the voice came from and was shocked to see that Phil was sitting on the loveseat opposite from where Clint was laying. Clint swallowed, his mouth suddenly developing a sour taste, then starting to water. Phil sighed. “Bathroom’s down the hall, second right.”

Clint nodded and shot up, running towards the bathroom at inhuman speeds. He reached the toilet and he most certainly did _not_ throw up half his guts. No. He didn’t.

He sunk to the floor, flushing as he did, and lowered the lid. He swallowed, the taste of bile tainting his mouth. “ _Never_ ,” he muttered. “ _Again_.”

“Again what?”

Phil was leaning against the doorframe, holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. If it wasn’t for the fact that Clint had an ego he would have burst into tears. Was Phil a gift from God?

 

After he had drank about five glasses of water and took three pills (give or take) he was sharing the living room with Coulson and was about to say something to break the silence when his phone went off shrilly in his pocket. Clint flinched at the sound because his headache was a stubborn bastard but answered in nonetheless. “Yeah?”

“What the fuck, man?” Tony sounded extremely pissed, but not hung over in the least. Bastard.

Clint winced away from the speaker; he noticed Phil was watching in amusement. “Tony?”

“Hell yeah fucking right, it’s Tony,” the other snapped. “The one you abandoned at the bar? The fuck, man, I thought we were bros.”

“We are, Tony, I just got caught up—”

“Ohmygod just shut up. Wait. You got caught up? By who?” Tony sounded shocked. “Clint, did you get some ass last night?”

Phil threw his head back and laughed. Clint blushed and hissed, “Okay, you’re kinda talking too loud for this early in the morning. And no, it wasn’t some chick.” He looked Phil in the eye. “It was just some guy who was passing by at the right time.”

 

“ _It kills me not to know this but I've all but just forgotten_

_What the color of her eyes were and her scars or how she got them_

_As the telling signs of age rain down, a single tear is dropping_

_Through the valleys of an aging face that this world has forgotten”_

Rise Against, “ _Savior_ ”


End file.
